When you thought about Ashton Irwin, not that you did very often, you thought of his thick rimmed glasses, and the hair that seemed to be forever flopping into his face. You thought of the baggy shirts and the drumsticks constantly sticking out of his back pocket, or being tapped against the tables in the lunch room. When your friend had dragged you to the seedy underground club against your will, you’d expected to hate every second of it, because it was sticky and smelly, and most of the guys were leering at the two of you. When the crackle of the mic came through the speakers and you looked towards the makeshift stage, the last person you expected to see behind the drum kit was Ashton. Especially the Ashton you saw, his usual glasses missing, his hair curlier than usual. Your eyes would widen as the set went on, and Ashton got progressively more sweaty, until he’d take off his shirt, and you definitely hadn’t thought that’s what he was hiding under his baggy clothes. It was hard to take your eyes off him, but you tried your best, not wanting to be caught staring, and afterwards, your friend, who had seen you staring, would push you at Ashton when he walked past. He’d catch you in the arms you’d been ogling just minutes before, and you’d apologize, but he’d just giggle and ask if he could get you a drink, and it’d be history from there.